


A Friendly Exchange

by CorsetJinx



Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Ambiguous Warrior of Light, Banter, Gen, Getting to Know Each Other, POV Second Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-15
Updated: 2018-01-23
Packaged: 2019-03-05 00:22:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,908
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13376172
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CorsetJinx/pseuds/CorsetJinx
Summary: Activity comes to a lull in the daily demands of Ishgard. You finally have the chance to question the impossible weather, Halone’s graces, and break the ice a little with a potential new friend.





	1. Chapter 1

“Has the weather done something to earn your ire?”

You turn from your narrow-eyed examination of the sky, surprised to have been found at all. Even more so to see Count Edmont’s eldest son approaching, a curious half-smile softening the sharp lines of his face. You offer him one in return, folding your arms under the pretense of staving off a little more of the cold.

“Not necessarily, my Lord.” You answer mildly. “I merely thought it convenient that the storm from yesterday calmed so quickly. _After_ all the pressing business had already been taken care of.” You add, still feeling somewhat miffed that you’d navigated a blizzard for, seemingly, nothing.

Artoirel’s smile grows a little as he stands beside you at a respectable distance. Folding his arms behind his back, he said, “It can be the way of things in Ishgard. The best laid plans oft go amiss in the face of the Fury’s will.”

Privately, you agree that the blizzard _had_ been furious - but you do not think Artoirel would appreciate jests being made about the goddess he worshipped.

“A blessing, then, that this day is clear?” You say instead. “I would not wish such a storm on anyone, save perhaps the horde.”

He nods at that, smile falling away into seriousness. “Indeed. Would that all our foes could be misled or discouraged by such.” To your surprise, he glances at you and a little bit of his humor returns. “But this day is indeed a blessing. It shall award you a chance to rest - and Ishgard more time to prepare.”

You nod, a smile of your own threatening to surface again. “Pray the latter is used to the fullest. For myself, too much rest makes the mind anxious.”

Artoirel’s brows lift subtly, some of the stoicism leaving his face. “Truly? You shall have to forgive me - I had begun to think you unflappable.”

You want to laugh - perhaps bitterly - at that. “Many do.” You tell him instead, leaning your weight upon your left leg. “Alas, I’m no more immune to an attack of nerves than anyone else is. One merely learns not to show it as much.”

Artoirel favors you with a thoughtful look as tiny flakes of snow drift leisurely around the two of you. Ishgard is very nearly picturesque this way - muted by shafts of watery sunlight and quiet in the wake of no world-threatening event. You admire it as you wait for him to speak - wondering if perhaps, once this business that has brought you to Ishgard is done - if you might return someday.

“Would a game of cards ease your spirits?” He asks lightly, meeting your eye when you angle your head to look at him. “A distraction might give just the right amount activity, without dismantling the peace.”

He smiles, truly smiles, and you think you can see much of his father in his face.

“How about a spar?” You suggest with a grin, quirking a brow at the surprised look he gives you. “A knight is a knight, even if he may lay down his sword awhile. I’m proud to say that I’ve matched blades with the men of Camp Dragonhead, but not a knight of Fortemps.”

It is very, _very_ tempting to wink.

“Humor me?” You tack on instead of crossing that particular social boundary. Artoirel’s only just begun to warm up to you - it would be a damn shame to drive him off with the wrong impression.

Luckily for you, he looks to be entertaining the idea.

“It would be mine honor.” Artoirel inclines his head, looking as eager as you are to get back to Fortemps manor.


	2. Spar

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There’s a bout to be had, as promised. Perhaps Artoirel is a little _too_ good at playing host to the Warrior’s whims of fancy.

As it turned out, Fortemps manor had a decent sized courtyard that could be converted into a sparring ring when in a pinch. Artoirel gave you an inclination of his head when he departed, promising to meet you there once he’d secured his armor and weapon. You saw him off with a friendly wave and a similar promise - that you would not allow the Ishgardian chill to drive you off while he made himself presentable.

You liked to think that he’d stifled a laugh - or at least a chuckle - at that, rather than merely being polite. He had a light twinkling in his eyes when he’d left, you consoled yourself - though that could simply have been his eagerness to try and put you headfirst in the snow for your cheek.

Well, whatever the case, you were ready when he emerged from the manor. Clad in fine mail befitting his status as a lord, greatshield and sword accounted for, he looked suitably imposing as a knight. The memory of him on the bridge when Nidhogg’s horde attacked flickered through your mind and you felt some of the levity drain from your expression. A friendly match of blades this might be, but you had no intention of doing him the disservice of forgetting his skill.

“You kept your promise.” He greeted you with a trace of amusement on his fine, aristocratic features. “Well met.”

“I do my best to never disappoint a friend.” You tell him with all appropriate - _ridiculous_ \- gravitas. Saluting him, you offer a smirk to his curious tilt of his head. “Might I beg a few conditions of this bout?”

You see it clearly this time, the faint pull of his mouth to one side - almost a smile until he restrains it. A part of you wishes that he wouldn’t. Count Edmont had done an excellent job of passing on his genes to his children, surely a true smile would only serve to make his eldest son look more dashing.

“Beg, if you feel it necessary.” Artoirel folds his arms with good humor, the light in his eyes deepening. “I shall consider whether to grant them to you.”

You dip your head in a show of thankfulness, straightening up once you feel enough theatricality has been applied to the situation. Really, he’s doing such a good job of humoring you that you almost don’t want to stop.

“No magic, my lord, only blades. And shields.” You amend, nodding to the armament on his off-hand. “Also - “ You catch his eye, grinning. “If one of us goes tumbling into the drifts it is a forfeit. Fair?”

It’s a clear dig, no other way about it. The yard is swept clean except for a few choice places. Really it’s the gazebo you shall have to avoid, as it would be a shame to return Edmont’s kindness with destruction of his property. But you can’t help but think how funny it would be to upend a born Ishgardian into a pile of snow.

Artoirel’s brow lifts. He makes a show of looking around the two of you, as if wondering what you could possibly mean. When he meets your eye again you can see that he’s caught on to your silly thought - and that, if situation permits, he might just turn it against you.

“Your terms are fair.” He says at last, allowing that little twitch of his mouth again. “I’ve none of mine own to name. Shall we?” His arms unfold, fingers gloved in mail-backed cloth curling around the pommel of his sword.

“Quite.” You draw steel and flash him your sharpest grin as you adjust your stance.

A moment as he does the same and then the two of you are at it. Your boots find traction over the broom-swept ground, enough to keep from slipping, and you duck around his initial swing to swipe at his legs. His shield blocks you and the ring of metal on metal is piercingly loud in the frosty air. No doubt that it might draw a crowd to the windows if you make enough noise, but that fades away as you bait Artoirel into chasing you around the yard.

By the Twelve he’s quick. One of his blows nearly catches your unprotected side and it’s only by _literally_ sliding around him and scrambling to your feet that you avoid it.

He turns, parrying your strike and you see him smile.

“ _Marvelous._ ” He praises, breath leaving his mouth in a cloud of white steam, and if looks could pleasantly kill you might have dissolved right then from the heat racing through your blood.

“I know.” You say instead, jabbing at him and grinning as he gives up ground. He’s pragmatic at least, sacrificing a step or two so he might avoid a kiss of your blade in his leg, but the battle to keep your advantage is no easy one. He outstrips you in size and reach, but you’re nowhere near ready to give up just because of that.

It’s quite the surprise then, when his shield dutifully catches your swing and repels it, that Artoirel’s eyes widen and he suddenly goes down in a tumble. You experience a moment of panic and reach for him, lurching and not minding where you put your feet as you do. Your foot slips over ice and you follow him down, thankfully not impaling yourself on either your sword or his as your body connects with hardened ground.

The thin cushion of snow too stubborn to be swept aside softens nothing and your armor digs judgmentally into your shoulder as you groan. Artoirel grunts as he makes the attempt to lift himself, a self-depreciating chuckle rising past his lips.

“Mine apologies. It seems I was not so careful as I thought.” He moves and you see it - the patch of ice hidden in the shade of the gazebo, its deceptive cover of snow disturbed by the scramble of his feet and now your own. Shaking his head to dislodge any snow, he turns to you - concerned. “Are you alright?”

You’re probably going to bruise, honestly, but you’ll take that over a cracked skull any day.

“Sore.” You tell him, pushing yourself up. “But well enough. Did you hit your head? When you fell I feared - “

He shakes his head again, embarrassment almost indistinguishable from the flush of exertion on his cheeks. The color is darker towards the tips of his ears, but it’s strangely endearing enough for you not to make mention of it. Besides, you’d fallen as well. No need to rub salt into the wound.

“I am well.” Artoirel offers you a hand up, ever the gentleman, and you take it. You pretend not to admire the strength and steadiness with which he helps you to rise. “Though I regret that this means mine forfeit, according to the terms.”

He’s still faintly smiling, his hand firm and not unwelcome on your arm. You trace the flakes of snow caught in the sleek blackness of his hair, how he looks at you with warmth rather than any sourness.

“A draw.” You grin, squeezing his forearm lightly. “I fell not long after you. Fair to say we landed at the same time, more or less.”

His brows lift, but he only studies you thoughtfully before slowly nodding. “Perhaps another bout is to be had, once the danger of ice has passed?” He offers mildly, conscientious of just how much hope to allow himself to show.

“Agreed.” You release him, sheathing your blade. He mimics you, a wonder in his stare as he regards you and you try not to bask in it overmuch. “Perhaps a drink, to chase away so close an encounter. Fair?”

Artoirel looks pleased, quietly amused and, perhaps, just the littlest bit flustered. “Agreed.”


End file.
